Convalescence
by Cooper-Gwen
Summary: Or, the recovery of Ziva David. Post-Somalia, starts after the end of 7x01.
1. one

**This is not only the first NCIS fic I've written, ever, but also the first fic I've written in over a year. I'm _supposed _to be doing Nano right now as it's already a week into the month and I've barely got 2,000 words, but writing original characters is hard and I wanted a break. I'm seriously obsessed with this show, you guys. I only started watching it a couple months ago but it's just so _awesome._**

**As always, they do not belong to me. I'm going to try to finish this thing, as I want to do a chapter from Gibbs and Ziva's POV as well, possibly even the rest of the team. We shall see. It also has not been beta'd so there will probably be stupid mistakes that I missed, as I only read through it twice.**

* * *

The clapping slows, and then stops, after another minute. Abby's hold on her begins to loosen, and she steps away just barely, leaving her hands on Ziva's arms. A hush has fallen, and they are all waiting to see what Ziva will do – Tony half thinks that she'll say something, but then he feels his stomach lurch as she swallows, wincing in discomfort. But before he can so much as take a step Gibbs is taking control again, and Vance is shooing every else back to wherever they came from.

''Ducky, why don't you head down to autopsy- you too, Abs. We'll be right behind you.'' Abby looks as though she wants to hug Ziva again but she merely nods and moves, boots clicking, towards the elevator, followed by Ducky after he exchanges an unreadable look with Gibbs.

''DiNozzo, McGee, hit the showers.'' Gibbs pauses for a brief second. ''Then pack a bag.'' His eyes flicker towards the unmoving Ziva. Once upon a time Tony would have had several one-liners about seeing Ziva's underwear tumbling off his tongue, accompanied with a leer – he would have received a glare (and possible flying paperclip) from the ninja herself, and a slap over the head from his all seeing boss. The thought of what they've lost makes his gut churn.

A small part of Tony wants to interject, to go toe-to-toe with Gibbs on this, for he has an irrational fear of letting Ziva leave his sight – the last time that happened, _this _is where they ended up. But he reminds himself that Gibbs knows what he's doing. And this is all for Ziva, now. So he swallows down any argument and gently nudges McGee towards the elevator.

He takes a last look at Ziva and Gibbs just before the doors close – the boss is speaking in a low voice, and Ziva is still not moving. There's a heavy feeling in his chest that signals a long road ahead – for all of them.


	2. two

It was a good minute after the elevator doors slid shut on DiNozzo and McGee that Ziva showed any signs of life. Gibbs was all for moving quickly; the faster Ducky examined and treated Ziva, the faster she could clean up, and they could all get some much needed rest. No one was looking at them anymore, but he still felt far too exposed, too vulnerable in the middle of the large clump of desks. He could guess that Ziva felt the same.

Making judgment calls was something Gibbs did every single day – it was just another part of the job. But for the first time in quite a while, he felt himself hesitant as he looked at the battered, filthy Ziva. She was staring straight ahead, into nothingness, arms hanging limply at her sides, normally bouncy curls weighed down with dirt and grime. It was an awful sight – he had known Ziva to be quiet, hurt, even crying on occasion, but this _emptiness_, the shell-shocked stiffness with which she stood in front of him, was almost too much.

But this wasn't about him. It was about her.

And she needed them.

''Come on, Ziver,'' he said softly, holding onto her elbow as he walked them in the direction of the elevator. She went willingly, matching his pace, but still saying nothing. The doors slid shut. The hum of the elevator moving down and Ziva's soft but erratic breathing were the only things filling the silence.

Ducky was waiting patiently for them when they entered autopsy, and Abby was nowhere to be seen.

''I sent Abby to procure some clothes for Ziva,'' he said as Gibbs arched an eyebrow. ''And something to eat, as well – I imagine you must be hungry.''

Gibbs and Ziva both remained silent, but Ducky didn't appear to be expecting any answer as he prepared an array of small tools – a penlight, tongue depressor, and stethoscope among them – and patted one of the gurneys, which was covered with what looked like towels. ''Climb on up, my dear,'' he said to Ziva with a small smile, and to Gibbs' surprise, Ziva walked forward on her own, placing a hand on the side of the gurney.

The winces that crossed her face as Gibbs helped her up were not lost on him or Ducky, nor was the soft hiss of breath she let out as she settled into place.

''I'm just going to shine this light into your eyes, Ziva,'' Ducky began, flicking the light on, ''just look somewhere to your left for me, now.''

Ziva complied. Gibbs looked on.

''Normal dilation,'' Ducky murmured, ''that's good. Open your mouth for me, please.'' He shone the light inside, staring critically. ''Redness, but that's to be expected with that arid desert air.''

The inspection continued for ten more minutes, with Ducky talking the entire way through it, filling the silence with a steady murmur as he cleaned out the small cuts along Ziva's face and arms, and held the stethoscope to her chest.

But the bruises and cuts went far beyond her cheeks and forearms, and Ducky carefully removed the stethoscope from his ears before asking. ''Ziva. I'm going to have to remove your shirt – shall Gibbs wait outside?''

Gibbs, who was already standing straight and beginning to walk to the doorway, was halted by the first words Ziva had spoken so far: ''No. He can stay.''

Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and, likely, the abuse of sand and hot, dry air. At least, that was what Gibbs was choosing to attribute it to, for now – there was likely a far worse reason, he knew.

There was no love lost between Ziva and her dirty, tattered clothing, and so Ducky simply began to cut the fabric away, bits of sand falling onto the floor as Ziva moved her arms to slide it off, head down, hands gripping the edge of the gurney. Gibbs was glad, in a way, that she wasn't looking – he and Ducky had more control than to gasp, but Ducky's eyes widened, lips parting in an instinctive reaction of shock, and Gibbs' fists were clenching so hard that he wouldn't have been surprised to find blood later.

Cuts were all the way up her arms, some healing, others relatively fresh. Bruises were abundant, and across what seemed like every inch of her skin – up her sides, across her torso, some just large, mottled black and blue, others closer to her chest in distinctive hand-shaped prints.

''Oh, my dear girl,'' Ducky murmured finally, lifting up the antiseptic and sterile cotton, ''What did they do to you?''


	3. three

**Oh my god, I am _so sorry _I ditched you guys. I haven't even watched an episode of NCIS in at least a month...but I felt the urge to write this fic again, and so maybe - as I don't think it's going to be very long - I will actually finish it by the end of the month. Thanks for the reviews!**

* * *

The shower had not helped. Nor was the tea, or the cup of soup from the deli a few blocks up from the hospital.

At least she had her own clothes, Ziva had to concede, sipping listlessly at her cooling tea. It was a small comfort to be able to wear her own loose, clean smelling clothing in place of the filthy rags that had been alternately ripped off and shakily pulled back on over the past four months.

It was nearing evening and though her numerous medical examinations were over, Ziva still unsettled, right down to her bones. It had mildly surprised her how smoothly it had all gone relatively, that was. The burn of humiliation and failure was still simmering, and it had been since the first viewing of her battered, broken body in autopsy hours ago. Being examined by the poker-faced doctor and nurses was only marginally better; at least she'd never have to see them again. They performed the awkward ultrasound, ascertaining no fatal internal injuries, nor any pregnancy Ziva had tried to avoid this thought entirely, eyes shut as they smoothed cold goop over her flat stomach and stood in silence, staring at the screen.

That was almost three hours ago. Since, Ziva had had the aforementioned shower and soup, and was sitting silently on Gibbs' old couch, staring at the sun playing against the wall opposite. She was not alone in the house, but the cavalry that had accompanied her back from the hospital consisting of Tony, Gibbs, and an oddly quiet Abby had dispersed; Tony and Abby for their respective apartments and Gibbs to the upstairs, where Ziva could hear him creaking around, making up the bed and scrounging up towels. It was a strange thing to imagine, that their tough-as-nails boss could tuck a hospital corner, and the thought brought a not-quite smirk to Ziva's chapped lips.

They were all so...so glad to see her, although it was as if someone had died: the atmosphere was dark and gloomy; Abby had, for once, looked the part of a depressive goth, and Tony had been...reluctant to leave her side, to say the least. Ziva would not be surprised if Gibbs had ended up threatening him with bodily harm should he not return home for his own shower and nap, which, she could tell, he sorely needed.

''Upstairs is ready for you,'' came the quiet voice from the foot of the stairs, and Ziva nearly sloshed her tea across her lap. ''Left your bag on the bed.''

''Thank you,'' she returned just as softly, cupping her mug with both hands and standing up, working hard to suppress the wince this action brought on. ''I think I will sleep now.''

Or, rather, try. Sleeping was almost as foreign a concept as hot showers and actual beds were at this point. She'd have to see how it went, although she couldn't imagine it ending very well.

Gibbs nodded, moving away from the stairs, although he wasn't breaking her gaze. To onlookers it would have appeared strange, as most things that Ziva shared with her boss would have. It was hard to say which of the two had the better poker face; Ziva would, of course, insist on herself while Gibbs would cite the years of life experience he had on Ziva as proof that _his _was, in fact, superior. Either way they were essentially staring each other down, expressionlessly, but Ziva was the first to break the gaze.

''Thank you, Gibbs.'' sighing, she looked towards her lukewarm tea. ''I I know it must have been...difficult. The mission. You brought me back.''

Back from hell, back to somewhere she never dreamed she'd see again, to people whose faces she dared not hope to gaze upon again. It was inadequate, just a simple 'thank you', because once again, this team had moved heaven and earth to help her, and that was a strange enough feeling in itself the knowledge that they had once again done the impossible, all for her.

''You never have to thank me, Ziva.'' Gibbs was not smiling, but nor was he frowning. He had fallen somewhere between the two, his facial muscles relaxed, and his expression fond. ''I'd do it again tomorrow. We all would.''

Oh, the lack of sleep was making her emotional. Old Ziva never would have let the tears enter her eyes, but her mind was not what it used to be just months previously. Swallowing, Ziva nodded, directing her gaze somewhere over Gibbs' shoulder, and hoping that the lump in her throat would pass.

''Get some sleep. Don't get up until...'' Gibbs glanced over at the clock in the living room, ''oh six hundred, at least. I want a full night's rest for you.''

That was more like it. Orders Ziva could deal with, could understand, and so she straightened her spine and nodded. ''Yes, Gibbs.''

''You know where the bathroom is. Holler if you need anything.''

''Goodnight, Gibbs.''

''Sleep tight, Ziver.''

Ziva let herself get to her bedroom door before a tear slipped out, followed by another, and then a hundred more, flowing quietly as she changed, brushed her teeth, and curled into the bed. The smell that surrounded her was both jarringly unfamiliar after months of prison camp and overwhelmingly comforting. It took Ziva a moment to put it all together: the detergent Gibbs used on the bedding, the subtle spice of Tony's deodorant from the t-shirt she'd grabbed out of her bag (one she had had of his for quite a while now, though she'd never tell anyone), and the sweetness of her own shampoo on her drying, soft hair.

Her head hurt, and so did her stomach. Her mind was going insane inside of her skull, but God, it was good to be home.


End file.
